


Keep On Coming Home

by DesdemonaSighs



Series: But I do know one thing (is where you are is where I belong) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, do you realize i only write song fics da hell is wrong with me, in which i cant get over some lyrics, sort of sherlockcentric, this isnt angsty i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaSighs/pseuds/DesdemonaSighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's new life, no matter how different it has become since Sherlock's "death", somehow always leads him right on home to 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep On Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this at two different times, which might be why the first part is written slightly differently than the second. Oh well. I don't have enough energy to play around with voices right now. GAH.

_"Sweet pea, apple of my eye, don't know when and I don't know why, you're the only reason I keep on coming home."_

Sherlock could see it all in his head. John had left for his date only an hour prior, and already he had texted Sherlock to remind him to eat dinner. The stream of John texts kept coming in, and Sherlock replied in short answers, his left hand barely leaving it's usually spot on the tent it formed with Sherlock's right under his nose. He couldn't stifle the smile that crept across his lips with each text, each desperate reach for Sherlock's attention ( _"don't think i want to be here long. pop in a film for when i get back and we can watch it if you arent too tired." "John, you are aware I broke our DVD player a week ago, right? SH" "oh yes, the experiment that somehow required you to take apart our one good electronic item. and stop bloody putting 'SH' at the end of everything, i know its u"_ ). The detective didn't know much about dating, but if his flatmate was already contacting him after a mere 60 minutes, the date wasn't working out. Which was odd to say the least, considering the date was with John's beautiful fiance, Mary, whom he spoke of as if she was a fallen angel.

If there ever was a fallen angel in John's life, that should have been Sherlock. It was only logical, anyways. He had died, hadn't he? Weren't angels just deceased humans, according to the monotheistic beliefs of 59.3% of the London area? John should have recognized the connection there. Then again, John didn't like to speak of the time he thought Sherlock was dead. Or the time he punched Sherlock across the face after not seeing him for a year. Or the time he pinned him up against a wall and viciously ripped all of Sherlock's clothes off and _oh_ , Sherlock's thoughts were going in _that_ direction again. Either way, John was just projecting his true emotions for Sherlock onto Mary.

Obvious. Boring. But true.

It was, however, a pleasurable thought knowing that no matter how much John claimed to adore Mary and love her, he always came home to Sherlock. That was right, Sherlock was his _home_. Not just 221B Baker Street, no, wherever Sherlock was happened to be home for John. He had seen John's discomfort in their flat when Sherlock had been "dead" (through numerous of Mycroft's unlicensed cameras), had recognized the loneliness and homesickness that was John's entire world without Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock despised seeing the love of his life in shambles because of _him_ , but he felt slightly smug that John just couldn't live without him. (Was smug the right word? Victorious, maybe. HA. Take that, Mary.) 

Sherlock looked down at his phone, a smiling slipping across his lips. 

_love Mary and all, but wish I was at home with you watching crap telly! What's wrong with me today???_

Sherlock didn't bother replying. John knew how he felt. John had seen the unspoken _I love you_ 's that lingered on Sherlock's lips every time they were together. He had allowed the faint touches, the cuddles in bed that Sherlock had never thought he would ever need in his life (but he had become accustomed to adoring with John around). John had even kissed him, hungry and dangerous and oh so _right_. Of course he had pulled away and apologized profusely and proceeded to call Mary and spend the night with her, but he didn't seem so sorry when it kept fucking _happening_. 

Maybe Sherlock should have wanted more. He should have wanted John all to himself. He should have wanted to kiss John without having to apologize or to be able to grab his hand at a crime scene without all of bloody London giving him dagger eyes like he had just killed a puppy for the next two weeks. And honestly, he did want all of it. He wanted John and everything he could get from John. That was exactly why he couldn't take John away from Mary. All Sherlock would ever do was take from him. Take and take and take until there was nothing of the strong soldier left. He would own every piece of John because that's what he wanted. Oh god, that's what he craved so badly, it hurt. 

Maybe one day he wouldn't be able to take it anymore. He would take John. But for now, he was content with knowing that there was only one reason John came back to 221B Baker Street: Sherlock. 

*** 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he heard the front door open, carefully curling in on himself in an attempt to act like he was sleeping. He heard John's heavy steps as he walked up the stairs and to their flat, listening with just a twinge of satisfaction at the limp his leg had produced from spending time with Mary. 

He slammed the door behind him, huffing through the sitting room and settling into his chair without even a glance at Sherlock. Ah, so they had gotten into a fight. Of course. 

"Jesus, that woman," John groaned, more to himself than to Sherlock. The detective made an act of stirring on the couch, stretching his long arms out and letting an uncharacteristic yawn leave his lips. "Oh, sorry, you were sleeping. I just figured you were..." A pause, followed by a shift in weight on the couch as John sat at the edge of it, "... never mind. Go back to sleep." 

Sherlock didn't say anything, instead burrowing his nose deeper into the crease of the couch, inhaling the scent of John and leather and spilled tea. He felt cool fingertips against his neck and he repressed a shiver. He refused to turn over: that would be admitting defeat. Defeat to what, he didn't know, but he did know that him and John were at a constant battle for something or another (for each other?). He bit his lip, staying completely still as the fingers (John's fingers!) twisted through his long locks. 

"You make me wild," he muttered under his breath, barely even a whisper. His fingers stroked delicately down his scalp and over his neck, gliding barely under the collar of Sherlock's dressing gown. Sherlock couldn't help the shudder that ran through his entire body. "Damn it, why'd you have to go and die? Why'd you have to leave me? We could have been... right now, we could be..." Another pause, this time filled with unspoken words and the quickened breathing of a consulting detective. 

Then, the sensation of lips pressed against Sherlock's neck, dry and warm and _right_. And Sherlock couldn't help it; he turned over, grabbing the back of the doctor's neck and bringing their lips together. They kissed for what seemed like an eternity and what seemed like far too short, and Sherlock pulled away reluctantly, gasping for breath and red in the face. This was crossing the line. This was going into that possessive place that Sherlock wasn't ready to be in. His hands traced over John's jaw, gulping back the want to nip at it lightly. 

"I love you," John murmured, pulling completely away from Sherlock and scrubbing a hand over his face, "I bloody love you and you pretend that you're sleeping on the couch and, fuck me, I just love you so much." 

Sherlock heard the desperation in John's voice, felt the bitter edge to the otherwise sentimental words. He paused, hesitated just a beat too long and John turned on his heels, walking quickly to his room. 

Sherlock sat up, calling after him. "I love you too! I'm glad you're home!"


End file.
